


so open up my eyes, tell me I'm alive

by RainbowRandomness



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Chapter: Public Enemy, Comfort, Connor freaking out about becoming a deviant, Gen or Pre-Slash, Internal Conflict, M/M, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Pre-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 14:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15776067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowRandomness/pseuds/RainbowRandomness
Summary: He learns three things.First, that the androids registered name is ‘Markus’.Secondly, that he was a gift given by Elijah Kamski, CyberLife’s founder, to the famous painter Carl Manfred.And lastly; the deviant leader, the one to bring forth the androids revolution, is an RK-Series Prototype, an RK200.





	so open up my eyes, tell me I'm alive

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is.... absolute shocking shite, I don't know how this came to be but here it is, please just take it and let me die in a ditch
> 
> also do ya'll realise how dumb that "androids investigating androids" quip is?? Perkins is a dumb invalid bitch arite 
> 
> this came about cause that scene?? what ?? why?? does it happen? like I'm happy it's a scene but then it's never explained ? wah??? 
> 
> other people are also confused by the scene and I found [this](https://gamefaqs.gamespot.com/boards/182637-detroit-become-human/76736625) so now this fic exists and it is what it is arite 
> 
> ALSO this is ???!? just another fic where it can be read as gen or flash or whatever, like ?? I ship them but there's nothing super shippy in this so whatever, read however ya damn please
> 
> I'm gonna go..... play dbh or... crawl into a ditch, one or the other, maybe both, anyway, enjoy 
> 
> Title from _Believe_ by Mumford  & Sons

Another deviant crime scene. Connor listens to the briefing, casts his eyes over the officers littering the brightly lit corridor. There are no casualties; two guards stunned and left unconscious behind their desk, an employee who had managed to run and escape the scene.

There are no bodies for him to analyse in the corridor, but there is a plethora of evidence to take in when they enter into the broadcasting room. The moment he steps foot inside the room Connor’s eyes dart around the wide open space, taking note of every piece of evidence that will need to be catalogued.

His thoughts are interrupted by the FBI agent gesturing towards him.

“What’s that?”

He keeps his tone neutral. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

Special Agent Perkins makes a quip, “Androids investigating androids,” which Connor chooses to ignore. It seems pointless to remind him that humans investigate humans regularly and have done for millennium; he senses that his comment wouldn’t be appreciated and simply keeps his mouth closed, eyes returning to scanning the room at large.

When Agent Perkins turns away he hears Hank scoff from beside him before announcing that the agent is a “fucking prick,”; Connor finds he doesn’t disagree with the statement but decides to keep his thoughts to himself.

He walks around the room, analyses the bullet holes peppered along the walls, catalogues the discarded hat by the desk and the blue blood spattered along the floor and up the wall. He scans the room and reconstructs the scene, using the evidence at hand to recreate what had happened here; there was more than one assailant, a deviant was wounded.

The image of the skinless android, the revolutions leader, stares intimidatingly from up on the screen. His eyes, two different colours, watch the officers attempt to link the clues left behind to figure out how the deviants broadcast their message.

Connor moves to stand in front of the screen. He looks up into the deviants eyes and presses play.

“ _We ask that you recognise our dignity, our hopes, and our rights. Together, we can live in peace, and build a better future, for humans and androids._ ”

Hank moves to stand beside him, looking up at the screen. Connor doesn’t take his eyes off the deviant leader, watching him give his speech.

“ _This message is the hope of a people. You gave us life. And now the time has come for you to give us freedom._ ”

“Think that’s rA9?”

Connor doesn’t turn to face Hank. “Deviants say rA9 will set them free. This android seems to have that objective.”

He scans the androids face; the reflections of other androids can be seen in the green of his left eye, a confirmation that the deviant leader had accomplices. His right eye, the blue iris, is a spare part upon further inspection, not the deviants original optical unit.

Connor moves his gaze down to the small print of neat numbers that line the androids cheek. He scans them, a panel in his vision opening to give him information via the model identification number.

He learns three things.

First, that the androids registered name is ‘Markus’.

Secondly, that he was a gift given by Elijah Kamski, CyberLife’s founder, to the famous painter Carl Manfred.

And lastly; the deviant leader, the one to bring forth the androids revolution, is an RK-Series Prototype, an RK200.

“D’you see something?”

For the briefest of moment, he hesitates. He opens his mouth to say something and finds himself floundering, tongue heavy and mind lost for words. He closes his mouth, opens it, tries again.

“I identified its model and serial number…”

There’s a slight quiver to his voice when he replies.

Why is he quivering?

“Anything else I should know?”

He can tell his tone has piqued Hank’s interest in the way that he turns towards Connor, blue eyes watching him, analysing his reaction. There’s a lilt to the end of his question, curiosity clear in the tone of his voice, in the way that he tries to keep it light, as though he’s not waiting for Connor’s fumbled reply.

Hank leans to the side to get a clearer view of Connor’s face; his eyes haven’t left the screen.

It takes another moment for Connor to reply.

“No.”

Connor glances towards Hank, does a double take between the Lieutenant and the deviants image up on the screen.

“Nothing.”

He knows his answer isn’t convincing. Hank doesn’t press the matter, leans back and glances up at the screen, the cogs in his mind turning to figure out what it was that Connor had seen. He looks down, brow furrowing briefly in contemplation, and then looks up at Connor again, considering.

Hank walks away, questions left unasked sitting heavy on his tongue. Connor’s eyes flick down from the screen, confusion at his own reaction causing his lips to pull down into a frown.

His eyes return to the image of the deviant leader.

Markus.

The RK200.

-

“You gonna tell me what that was back there?”

Connor isn’t sure what event Hank is referring to. He keeps his gaze forward, watching Detroit’s snowy landscape pass them by through the windshield. He tips his head only slightly in Hank’s direction to indicate he’s listening.

“What are you referring to, Lieutenant?”

Hank grunts from beside him. “When you were looking at that android on the screen. You kinda… froze.”

Connor’s brows twitch briefly into the imitation of a frown. “I didn’t freeze, Lieutenant. I was analysing the information that may be useful to our investigation.”

He realises a beat too late that he sounds defensive. He catches sight of a smirk tugging at Hank’s lips before he shakes his head.

“No, no, after that. When I asked you what you’d seen. You told me you’d identified its number or something.”

Connor remembers, the interaction playing back to him briefly in his memory. “I identified its model and serial number.”

“That’s it,” Hank says, nodding, “and then you froze.”

Connor’s brows twitch again and he tries to keep his tone neutral when he speaks. “I didn’t _freeze_ , Lieut‒”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank waves him off and then continues, “You seemed distracted. And when I asked if there was anything else I should know, you hesitated.”

Connor doesn’t say anything. His fingers twitch where they rest in his lap; if he were human, he’d say it was a nervous tick.

There’s a beat of silence where Hank waits, expecting Connor to make another comment. When it becomes evident he won’t, Hank speaks again.

“Why’d you hesitate Connor?”

His voice is a low rumble and the sound of it sends an electric current up Connor’s spine. It makes him want to shiver and he tampers down on the strange urge, keeps himself still. His eyes stare forward, watching the city streets cycle by.

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure why he hesitated. If he analysed his reactions and the information that he had gained, he would pinpoint his hesitance on learning that the deviant leader was an RK hundred model.

A blink of yellow against the passenger side window catches his eye. By the time he looks over, his LED has already settled on its usual blue.

Without knowing why, Connor worries his bottom lip between his teeth. His fingers twitch in his lap again and he fights the urge to reach for his coin; a nervous tick, a coping mechanism. Human mannerisms he shouldn’t possess, and yet‒

“He’s an RK hundred model.”

Hank glances over towards him, forehead creased in confusion. “What?”

Connor’s fingers flex against his thigh, curl into a fist and relax again. He drags his fingernail along the material of his jeans, keeps a slow, steady rhythm as he scratches idly at his thigh. Back and forth, back and forth, a grounding, repetitive motion he shouldn’t crave.

“The deviant leader,” he swallows, feels his throat convulse with the motion that he doesn’t need, “I identified its model and discovered it was an RK-Series Prototype, an RK200.”

Hank whistles low beside him, more a release of breath than anything else. Connor’s fingers dig into the top of his thigh, scratching, scratching, _scratching_.

“He’s like you,” Hank says, more a statement than a question, but he still tips his head Connor’s way as if seeking confirmation. Connor nods in response, fingers still flexing against his thigh.

“Yes, my‒” he pauses, licks his lips, another nervous tick he shouldn’t have, “my predecessor, of sorts.”

He stumbles over the word, clunky in his mouth and tripping off his tongue. His LED blinks yellow, circling blue at his temple, gold slipping in every once in awhile. He turns his head further away from Hank and gazes out the side window, hoping the Lieutenant won’t notice the instability projected with the coloured light.

Hank’s quiet, clearly thinking. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, an unconscious action that creates a rhythmic beat against the vinyl. Connor waits, picks up on the beat and mimics the rhythm, matching the tapping of his own fingers against his thigh with Hank’s against the wheel. The action gives him a small reprieve of calm, a sense of control he can feel trying to slip away from beneath him.

His thoughts slip towards Amanda, remembering her words.

“ _You are the most advanced prototype CyberLife has ever created._ ”

Was he? If the deviant leader was an RK hundred model, than Connor’s model was not unique. When he had scanned the android ‒ Markus, he recalls, his name is Markus ‒ he had learnt that Kamski himself had gifted the android to someone. He had been specifically made for that person alone, created by CyberLife’s founder for one purpose.

A completely unique model, no others like him ever made.

Connor’s hand clenches into a fist in his lap; the urge to reach for his coin, tucked safely away in his inner jacket pocket, returns.

 _He_ wasn’t a unique model. He thought‒ he had thought he was, had believed there was only one of his kind…

A flash of red catches hold of his attention. His LED blinks rapidly against his temple, gold light spinning round and round. He feels the urge to reach up and cover it with his hand, hide the revealing light from prying eyes, from himself.

Another thought slips into his mind like a whisper; if an RK hundred model, his own predecessor, could become deviant…

Could he‒

Was he capable of‒?

The scrap of his fingernails digging into his thigh makes him jump, LED blinking wildly. It must startle Hank too, for when Connor looks over at him Hank is already watching him, brow creased in startled concern. His hands had gripped the steering wheel in surprise and Connor opens his mouth as if to talk, but nothing comes out. He loosens his own grip against his leg and turns away again, yellow light blinking steadily.

“Connor?”

He doesn’t want to answer. He bites into his lower lip, keeps his gaze out the side window. He flinches when he feels Hank reach over and rest his hand, large and too warm, against his shoulder.

“Connor, what was you thinkin’ about?”

Connor has noticed, over their brief time together, the ways in which Hank’s voice dips low when he talks and what it signifies. There’s a commanding undertone that makes his voice dip low, like thunder in the distance of a thunderstorm, rolling through you like lightning striking the earth.

The urge to shiver returns, electrical shocks shooting up his spine and cultivating near the area in which Hank’s hand rests against his shoulder. It makes him feel too warm, a pressure building in his chest that feels as though it’s trying to fight its way out of him through his chassis.

“I‒”

He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window. He barely notices Hank’s hand retreat from his shoulder, his systems already overheating on their own.

They pull over to the side of the road, the car falling silent when Hank kills the engine. Connor doesn’t realise he’s trembling until Hank’s hand returns to his shoulder, fingers digging in just enough for Connor to feel the tremors vibrate beneath Hank’s palm.

“What’d you see Connor?”

His voice is low, soothing. Connor feels him lean closer, trying to get Connor to look over at him.

“Tell me.”

Connor can hear the command, however soft, in the tone of his voice. He bites at his lip, struggles to form the right words, and in the end just decides to start talking.

“The RK200 ‒ _Markus_ ‒ he was the first of the RK-Series, he’ll be as advanced as I am, maybe‒ maybe more so, he’s the only version of his model, he‒”

His voice is quivering again. Why is he quivering?

Hank’s grip on his shoulder tightens and he stifles a gasp. Against the window his LED is reflected back at him, yellow, yellow, circling, _red_ , blinking rapidly as his thoughts whirl.

“He‒ he’s like me,” Connor’s voice becomes a whisper and he realises belatedly that his hands are shaking where they’re resting in his lap. He raises them into the air and turns them over, palms up, watching them tremble.

Why is he‒?

“What if‒ what if I’m like him?”

His voice is so quiet, he’s surprised Hank can hear him at all.

“What if I become a deviant?”

There’s a moment where it feels as though time stops altogether. He doesn’t want to look at Hank, doesn’t want to analyse the emotions that are more than likely flashing quickly across his face; confusion, frustration‒ pity?

He lowers his hands to his lap and balls them into fists, trying to quell their trembling; they still shake, no matter how tightly he presses his fingernails into his palms.

Hank opens his mouth to talk, closes it, sighs in frustration. His grip flexes against Connor’s shoulder as though searching for something to do while he thinks of what to say. Connor doesn’t move from beneath his touch.

In the end, he sighs, a harsh breath through his clenched teeth, and reaches out to pull Connor against him.

It’s not the most comfortable position, for either of them. The gear stick rests between them, poking into the sides of their stomachs, and Connor’s seatbelt protests against being pulled so abruptly, straining against the pull.

But Hank’s hand is at the nape of his neck, thumb brushing idly through the fine hair there, tracing over one of the many moles that litter Connor’s skin. His body is warm where it presses against Connor’s own; his chest, his broad shoulders, his chin where it rests by Connor’s shoulder. His long hair brushes Connor’s cheek and he registers the ticklish sensation against his skin.

“It’s gonna be alright Connor,” Hank murmurs, words a low rumble Connor can feel vibrate through his chest and brush past his ear.

He stiffens, unsure of what to do; his hands rest awkwardly in his lap and he lifts them, letting them hang in the air. He doesn’t know where to place them, what’s allowed in this tentative moment before it’s pushed too far and he’s pushed away.

A whine, small and wounded, escapes his throat and Hank’s grip on him tightens.

“It’s gonna be alright.”

Connor closes his eyes and buries his face into Hank’s shoulder. He circles his arms around Hank’s waist until he can reach up and dig his fingers into his old, worn brown coat, holding on. His whimper is stifled against the thick material and Hank shushes him, rubs his thumb across his skin in repetitive, soothing circles.

Connor whimpers again and holds on tighter.

He clings to him; it's all he can do.

**Author's Note:**

> come follow me on [tumblr](http://rainbow-randomness.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I do not give permission to have any of my works put up on goodreads or any other such site.


End file.
